Aziraphale can tell when the clouds knit together that the storm is a demon-binger. A demon-binger, for those unused to Aziraphale's world, is like a harbinger, only far more loud, dangerous, and unsubtle. Well, perhaps unsubtle is the wrong word. This demon can be very subtle when he wants to be
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"Angel? Are you actually here this time?"
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"My dear, when was I not here?" he asked, blue eyes wide and innocent and twinkling. He itched to stand up and hug the demon properly, and make sure he was all right, but it- well. He was nervous.
There were books open on the desk in front of him, as always, and an abandoned cup of tea, but Aziraphale paid no attention to them, only to the figure in his entrance way.
"My dear Crowley," he murmured to himself.
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He stepped all the way into the shop, closing the door behind him. Aziraphale at his desk with books and tea... the dim shop... the angel's simple presence... It was comfortable. Familiar. ...Home? "I had some business in America, it took longer than I was expecting."
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